Severed Hand
by Porkchop Sandwiches
Summary: Jesse actually laughs 'cause no way is Mr. White fondling him in a Denny's on Halloween night like he's sucker-strangling some moron Stormtrooper. No point in struggling 'cause no matter how much Jesse pushes against what's left of the blue shards of his life, Mr. White's still gonna be there with a hand wrapped around Jesse's balls. Jesse just can't get himself to severe it.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is set in Season 3 on the night of "Fly." It's also a prequel to my story "The Chihuahua and the St. Bernard," but can be read separately.**

* * *

"_Jesse_, seriously, bro. Come on, you gotta stay!" Badger says.

He's all up in Jesse's grill and shouting in his face. Badger's got an arm on Jesse's shoulder, wobbling for balance like the heels on that chick wearing a mouse costume that's just black lacey shit and mouse ears. Badger jerks his chin over to the group of girls in skanky Ninja Turtle costumes that look like Shredder did their dry-cleaning 'cause it's skin city, bitch. They're sharing the same cushion of Badger's couch and a bong the same transparent silver color of Jesse's old Game Boy from eighth grade.

Everything in Badger's basement has been here since at least fucking middle school: the tan wood-paneled walls, curly like off-white carpet that always looks like it's covered in popcorn, and that god-awful peach sherbet pleather couch with its sharting noises and 80's vibe so strong he swears the thing's got shoulder pads instead of armrests. He's just waiting for George Michael to like bust out of the board game closet any minute.

Skinny Pete shoots Jesse pleading, wounded puppy-dog eyes, which is like weird as hell when he's dressed as a Stormtrooper. "Yeah, there's like three of them and three of us. If you bounce, you'd be messing with like the mathematics of getting pussy."

Jesse knocks Badger's arm off, waving his own arms around the room, eyes wide. The entire ground level of Badger's parent's house is filled with people, like crowded to the point Jesse would be giving the guy more props if crystal vapors weren't wafting their way into his nostrils like the heat coming off a cooling apple pie in an episode of _Looney Tunes_. Jesse never understands how Badger's folks can't smell all the meth that gets smoked down here. Maybe it's 'cause they look like a pair of tall, pale, lifeless celery stalks drained by a vegetarian fucking vampire. He hasn't been around them much since Badger's mom drives a truck and his dad works the graveyard shift as an orderly at Albuquerque Memorial. One of the few memories Jesse has of them is of a weekday night freshman year, sitting across a table of soupy meatloaf and store-bought mashed potatoes while they both watched an MMA fight and passed a pack of L &amp; M cigarettes back and forth. They weren't the kind of parents to make small talk at dinner. No, they're the kind that let Badger stay here rent-free while the dude brags about having a whole floor to himself like it's part of some sort of dope mansion instead of his parent's basement.

Honestly, the room's _way _too small, especially for a Halloween party crammed with tweekers. Badger's iPod playlist is a confusing mix of Sublime, Biggie Smalls, and Destiny's Child. But, no matter what song's on, there's at least six guys in _Dark Knight _Joker getups moshing into lamps and shit. Plus, that ain't even the worst of it. Listening to "Bills, Bills, Bills" is sort of terrifying when a roided-out, shirtless Michael Meyers is fucking a half-naked "sexy" Elmo into that framed photo of a seagull Badger lifted from the Crystal Palace. If Jesse has to stay here for longer than three minutes, he's gonna snort _something_, even if it's Fun Dip powder off of Rainbow Brite's ass.

"Man, that's one chill Luke Skywalker costume."

Jesse turns his head to a passing red Michael Jackson jacket on a black chick so gaunt she could be in bizarre late-night infomercials for crack.

He grits his teeth. "I'm Anakin, yo!"

His stupid outfit wasn't even Jesse's idea 'cause he knew he shouldn't be at this kind of party the second Badger brought it up last Friday at the arcade over on Azul. He's been clean for months now; even refusing the morphine pain med shit the hospital offered him after Mr. White's asshat of a brother-in-law went apeshit on him a few weeks ago. Jesse's face is still getting better with a couple of purple marks on his cheeks and a trace of a cut on his upper lip. Regardless, Jesse didn't want to spend a night in a black long-sleeved shirt, black leather vest with old beepers hot-glued to the belt around it, brown pants, a hooded brown robe, and one black leather glove.

He tried telling Badger he didn't want to go over their game of skeeball, but the guy was all like, "you're totally gonna look _so _badass with Skinny and me escorting you around like we're your straight-up posse."

"What _escort _me around your fucking rec room, Badger?" Jesse said. "Yeah, I'm gonna look boss as shit with two dudes covered in white plastic following me around your air hockey table."

"It's an air hockey _and _pool table; two-for-one, yo! And, don't even act like you don't get psyched about our air hockey tournaments." Badger suspiciously eyeballed the place before taking out a king-sized Snicker bar from his pocket and shucking off the wrapper. With his mouth full of caramel and peanuts, he said, "It ain't like you got Halloween plans anyway. You don't do jack shit anymore. Like, are you gonna pass out candy with your boyfriend Heisenberg and make out with him?"

Jesse couldn't roll a lame ten points when he heard that shit coming from Badger. It's not like Badger knows anything, but getting his dick diddled by his ex-Chemistry teacher ain't something he wants anybody joking about. And, yeah, he guesses using like the term "diddled" makes Mr. White sound more pedo than he actually is since it was Jesse who first walked into the guy's apartment, drunk with a boner and a bone-crushing fierce need for a distraction to not go back to the glass. After that first painful-as-shit night, the past seventeen days have gotten sort of better. Maybe it's like 'cause the guy's fifty and has a life's worth of practice beating off as a science geek. But, Mr. White's handjobs are on the same level of art as Blue Sky. Jesse's fucking dreaming about them for god's sake. Not to mention the sick "good boy, Jesse, good boy" shit that comes out of that goateed motherfucking mouth, making Jesse come like he's twelve again with the _Penthouse _he found while rollerblading behind a K-Mart.

So, yeah, Jesse decided spending like an hour at Badger's costume party was better than stroking himself on his futon while thinking about the nerdiest old dude he knows. Jesse literally spent the whole day with Mr. White, chasing a fly around the lab that he finally killed. He'd actually had to sedate the guy with sleeping pills in his coffee since he was acting so fucking weird. Jesse tucked him in on the couch in the break room before he went home to change into his dumbass costume. He wonders where Mr. White is now.

This party would have been at least decent if anybody knew who the hell he's dressed as. _Shit_, he's had five Luke Skywalker guesses, a Han Solo, and an Indiana Jones from a tubby Mexican guy wearing braces and a red Teletubbie jumpsuit who looked just way too young to even be at this shit.

"Don't listen to her, bro," Badger says. "We got the power of the half shell minus the purple, nerdy, smart one…."

Skinny Pete snaps his fingers. "Donatello!"

"Whatever, yo. Just shut up, I'm trying to talk." Badger wiggles his eyebrows. "Like I was saying, we got a pot of turtle stew just waiting on my sofa for some grade-A dick, if you know what I mean."

Jesse shakes his head, squinting. "Yo, you know people use that expression when they're being subtle, right?"

Badger blinks. "What expression? Turtle stew?"

"Man, we don't got time for being subtle," Skinny says. He fiddles with the Stormtrooper headgear-mask-shit he's been carrying around, darting his eyes low to the ground like he's nervous about something. Leaning closer, he lowers his voice. "Listen, yo, I haven't gotten laid in like _two days_. I'm getting the shakes."

Jesse shrugs, turns away purposefully from Big Bird over there having a sunny day with a meth pipe in his beak. "Then get some other dude and go for it. Why's it need to be me?"

Badger and Skinny trade guarded glances like Pokémon cards under the cafeteria table.

"What?" Jesse says.

Badger coughs out this super awkward laugh. "Hey, like I'm not trying to get homo or anything, but, uh, you're sort of the hot one, like the Beyoncé of our group."

"Ain't nobody wanna fuck Destiny's Child without Beyoncé!" Skinny says. He stretches up on the toes of his Jordan's like when he gets pissed off or excited. "Everybody knows that."

"Yeah, Jesse, like we'll totally let you have your pick, and Skinny and I'll take the leftover turtles," Badger says.

Jesse takes another look at the couch and "Say My Name" _of course is _playing. And blond Leonardo is either staring at him or the green Led Zeppelin poster behind him. It's hard to tell with her swaying, eyes all lazy and sluggish like she's got maybe one light on upstairs, though it's a nightlight under a bedside table that's two flickers away from dying. He has to admit it'd be nice to undress something soft and like yielding underneath him for a change, maybe be like lucky enough to risk getting lip-gloss smeared on his cock, but he's not gonna take advantage of someone _that _far gone. Working someone over when they're drunk is fucked up, which really_ is_ something everybody should know. They should know it even if that plastered-face son of bitch is crying beneath somebody twice his age with his pants down, fucking _begging_ for it 'cause feeling anything else would be too much.

"Yo, sorry for like going solo and dating Jay-Z or whatever, but I for real got to go."

He turns immediately, half-sure the craziness that came out of his mouth didn't actually get said as he walks off and hears Skinny slam his helmet down. Jesse feels a little guilty for ditching them, but then so does everything else Jesse's been doing lately. What's the difference?

* * *

Jesse can hear a train somewhere close as he switches off the ignition. He taps the bass line to a song he can't quite place across the steering wheel, wishing he was the kid in the sweet cardboard Buzz Lightyear costume hoping inside the passenger seat of his dad's Honda CRV with a to-go cup. Jesse wants to live on a planet where Halloween still means Reese's cups and watching _Casper _past his bedtime and getting that attention he'd pushed away for those first eleven years when he was still an only child, before Doogie Howser was born. He's done a fine ass job pushing his parents away now. Buying his house back the way he did wasn't burning what was left of the shitty, rickety rope bridge they still had between them. He fucking dismantled and blowtorched that shit to ashes. Unless he can learn to use the Force and levitate his way across the chasm, there's a good chance he ain't gonna be seeing them before Jake's high school graduation, if_ then_.

He's out of his car now, rubbing the base of his palms into his eyes and squinting under the flaring fluorescent light posts of the Denny's parking lot to make sure this shit's actually in front of him. Placing his hands on the familiar puke green hood only proves it really ain't a hologram.

"Yo, what…the _hell_?" Jesse rips his leather glove off, shoving it into his pocket. His breath's coming out in quick puffs into the cold dark like he's chain-smoking or something.

Jesse can't believe his shitty luck. He went to Denny's at nine o' clock wanting to get stuffed with pancakes, and out of the_ three _different fucking locations in Albuquerque, he picks the one where Mr. White's eating. So what if Jesse was thinking about the khaki Dockers-wearing tool? It's not like he's got brain powers that make people show up. If that was true, Mr. White would have seen Jesse orgasm a lot more than the guy already has.

"_Fuck_," Jesse says.

It shouldn't be so easy for him to think the words "orgasm" and "Mr. White" like they're fucking "Chewbacca" and "Wookiee." The side-by-side comparison of that shit doesn't line up exactly, but Jesse scored like a 500 on his SATs, so whatever.

Jesse walks in a damn circle like a dog freaking out over an ambulance for like a solid two minutes before he's like _fuck it_ and storms into the restaurant. The place is bright as shit, totally dead aside from a fat redheaded lady with a chubby son going ham on a hot fudge sundae. The kid gapes with a mouthful of vanilla ice cream when Jesse walks by their table. He looks like he's been crying recently: eyes all red, tissues around his plate, foam robot costume torn in places like some punks tried to beat him up.

Jesse smiles at him, stacking his fists to swing an invisible lightsaber as he makes a couple of electric-y noises. He swipes his imaginary weapon, now one-handed, towards his other arm, and pretends to slice the hand off. Drawing it back into his sleeve, he scrunches his face up in pain. The round, little guy's totally eating this up, even clapping when Jesse manages to "severe" his left leg and hop on the right. His mom claps too, nodding with a tight smile like she's about to get emotional. Jesse nods back.

When he glances up, he sees Mr. White standing by the men's room in what looks like a brown bathrobe. He's watching Jesse with this…well…Jesse might call it fondness if nobody important was listening. The dude's smiling, takes a hand out of his robe pocket to wave and then gesture to the booth a few tables over by Jesse's left.

Jesse slides across the bench seat closest to him, notices there's coffee but no plates.

"I was sitting there," Mr. White says.

"Yo, I thought you wanted me to join you." Jesse imitates Mr. White's hand motion from a few seconds ago.

"No, I mean, I was sitting on that side. It's where my coffee is placed. It's where I'd like to continue residing while I eat."

Jesse curls his tongue to the back of his molars, jaw out, mouth slack. "Yeah, well I'm sitting here now, so you can either not be a total bitch, but you know, normal for once and take the other one or just…."

He dials the volume down a notch or two since there's like an eight-year-old twenty odd feet away. "You can suck my dick."

Jesse isn't sure why exactly he's being kind of an asshole, butting the end of his lightsaber into the ribs of a sleeping multi-tentacle Sarlacc. It's not really the chillest thing to interrupt a guy in his bathrobe, drinking coffee alone and provoke him into getting angry. But, maybe that's what Jesse wants.

Mr. White sets his palms on the pale grey surface of the table and leans in enough for Jesse to hear a joint pop. "It would only be fair, now, wouldn't it?"

Jesse shuts his eyes 'cause he doesn't want to see Mr. White staring down at him the same way he does in bed with his knuckles trailing Jesse's stomach, using the back of his hand to rub him like his pet. He's given Mr. White exactly thirteen blowjobs in the past seventeen days, getting zero himself. There's no way in hell Mr. White's gonna do that shit for him and Jesse knows it. His cock on the other hand's not so bright, readily twitching in his oversized brown linen pants like that big space worm thing that tries to eat the Millennium Falcon.

"Is that what you want, Jesse?"

Jesse startles a little when he feels something warm against his mouth. And, it's just fucking instinct and shit to let his tongue take like the tiniest dab to see what the fuck it is. The faint tangy taste lets him know the thing's Mr. White's finger and from the shape, it's the dude's thumb. He doesn't know what part of him thinks it's totally cool to like barely wrap his lips around the digit and flick the end with his tongue. It fucking happens anyway.

Mr. White playfully pulls Jesse's lip down, making a _plop _as it meets his chin. He chuckles. "Good boy, Jesse."

It is _way _too early in the night for that kind of shit. Hearing those three words is a screeching, flashing red emergency light to change the subject as quickly as possible.

He opens his eyes, clears his throat, and grabs a menu like he doesn't already know he's getting a Build Your Own Grand Slam with extra bacon.

"Yo, speaking of normal," Jesse says. It feels like it's been a long time in their conversation when that was relevant, but he's working with anything he's got. "Why are you wearing a bathrobe?"

Mr. White swats the menu out of Jesse's slack hold. "I'm not wearing a bathrobe. It's an overcoat, you little imbecile, and a very nice one. I inherited it from my father."

Jesse scowls and drops his eyes past the end of this so-called coat to two hairy knees. "Then why in the hell do you got it on with no fucking pants?"

"It's a lengthy story. But, the gist is that I needed to drive back out to the lab for our unused insect spray. There's seems to be a fly infestation in my apartment as well. I'd been in bed a number of hours and couldn't fall asleep, so I threw on what was closest. I hadn't anticipated getting two flat tires in the process with no spare and a temporarily expired cell phone battery. Since I was down the block from here…."

"Yo." Jesse plops his chin on his hand, making a dramatic snoring noise. "If this is the short version, remind me never to be like, '_Gee_, Mr. White, please explain the ecological significance of Yellow Stone' or some shit."

Mr. White like examines him. "I'm genuinely surprised you knew how to even pronounce half of what you said."

Jesse licks the corner of his lips, smirks. "Yeah, this mouth's good for lots of stuff."

Mr. White lurches a step forward, and Jesse doesn't know what to do about it until he realizes this ponytailed, bony-looking guy in an apron with a platter, reading from a green slip of paper, accidentally bumped him.

"I got a Grand Slam with three scrambled eggs, hash browns, and bacon." He's got a strong Southern accent too. Seeming to notice he knocked into a customer, he slaps on a grin. "Excuse me, Sir, I didn't see you there. Where would you like your food?"

Mr. White surveys the table before sitting next to Jesse. He pats the space in front of him. "This will do fine."

"Alright, alright," he says. "My name is David. Let me know if you gentleman need anything else. I'll let your son look over the menu. Nice Mace Windu costume, by the way."

David nods at Jesse, sets down a glass of water with a straw and disappears into the kitchen before Jesse can correct _everything _that came out of that dude's mouth.

"Who exactly is Mace Windu?" Mr. White says.

Jesse fucking Frisbee-tosses the laminated sheet. "I'm Anakin Skywalker, yo!"

Mr. White makes an "o" shape with his mouth, eyebrows and hands raised. "Seems to be some sort of sore spot, I see."

"Yeah, and I _see_ you're on the same side of the table as me," Jesse says. "We on like a date or something?"

"I don't know, Jesse. Are we?" He chews a forkful of toasty, golden-brown hash browns, doing that pensive narrowing of his eyes. "What are the odds that the two of us arrive at the same Denny's fifteen minutes apart on Halloween, both wearing brown coats? I think in the realm of romantic comedies, an instance like this would be called serendipity. How did you wind up here anyway?"

Jesse shrugs. "I was at this Halloween party over at Badger's. It was alright or whatever, but there were a ton of guys, you know…."

Jesse scratches the side of his face and scans the restaurant to notice the kid's too short to see him and Mr. White, and the mom's got her back to them. He can vaguely hear the little guy spouting off about something, talking super-fast like he's completely confident or naïve enough to believe somebody's really listening and cares. Jesse's convinced they're too far away to hear him.

He fidgets with his straw wrapper. "They were like using and stuff. I split and thought I'd stop for a bite on my way home."

Mr. White makes a slight noise of acknowledgement, kind of a grunt. And it's not like Jesse wants a slap on the back and a crisp new _D.A.R.E_. sweatshirt for another successful night of not getting high, but Mr. White could say _something_.

"Would you like any of my food while you're waiting to order?"

Jesse's a little touched by the offer until Mr. White holds a strip of bacon out like he wants Jesse to eat it straight from his hand, which would be like the _only _straight thing about it. And _shit_, his stomach and dick are apparently the two dumbest back-row-of-the-classroom, playing-paper-football, drawing-tits-in-the-margins-of-tests dipshits 'cause one of them is half-hard and the other's groaning like a sliced-open tauntaun. Scanning the room again, he doesn't see anybody looking back, so he dips down, slipping the delicious fried pork between his lips to the middle of his tongue and bites.

Every single crunch is totally worth it. Jesse hasn't had anything to eat since that cold Wild Berry Pop-Tart he wolfed down with a Mellow Yellow in like ten seconds on the way to lab. He tries to move to take a sip of water, but Mr. White's other hand cups the back of his head and pulls him forward.

"Be a big boy and finish it, Jesse," Mr. White says. His blunt nails dig in his hair and scrape the base of Jesse's scalp in a way that makes Jesse want to drool. "You're slobber is already on this piece, so you might as well."

Jesse sucks his teeth like he's mad. He tips his mouth back to the bacon anyway, taking the rest of the piece in with enough space to lick at the puckered webbing between Mr. White's thumb and pointer finger. Jesse's head is released and he straightens with a snicker. "Now it's on your hand."

Mr. White tries to shake the spit off and frowns. "I'm continually impressed by your high level of maturity."

"Yeah, well, you're like the fourteen-year-old girl trying to share a side of the booth with me and talk about rom-coms. Which, you know I've never even seen that many to know what kind of shit people in those movies do in diners, unless you want me to fake an orgasm."

"I don't think that will be necessary."

Jesse takes that sip of water he wanted, clicking an ice chip between his teeth, and he's thinking of saying something like, "'course not" when he feels that all-fucking-encompassing hand creep up his inner thigh and like suction itself firmly on his crotch. He presses against the warm pressure for like one hyperspace second before he's like _get you're shit together, Jesse, _and makes a desperate two-hand grab on Mr. White's arm.

He hisses when the fingers around him constrict. "Mr. White, cut it the fuck out, we're in a _restaurant._"

"I'm aware of this, Jesse." Mr. White casually scoops some eggs in his mouth with his other hand and drops the utensil to wipe at his goatee with a napkin. "Are you aware that you have an erection in a _restaurant_?"

Mr. White's grasp lessens this time before it seizes up again, drawing in with gradually tightening pulses that remind Jesse of something.

"The Force is strong in this one," Mr. White says.

Jesse actually laughs 'cause no way is Mr. White fondling him like he's sucker-strangling some dipshit, moron Stormtrooper. The noise Jesse makes might briefly turn into a moan when he feels Mr. White twisting him. He tries to shove the guy's arm away again. It's fucking stuck there like the zombie prop hand shooting out of his neighbor's front lawn, which Jesse knows 'cause he tried to kick the shit out of it that night Mr. White left him high and dry and hard.

They'd met with Saul real late on a Thursday and afterwards Mr. White had pretzel-contorted Jesse's body to get Jesse straddling him in the front seat of the Aztek. Jesse barely had enough time to grumble out a "Yo, what the hell? We're still in the fucking parking lot. Saul's gonna see us," before Mr. White was unzipping his khakis, smirking and saying, "I'll take my chances." Then the steering wheel was jabbing Jesse in the back even with Mr. White reclined, grunting as Jesse planted his ass on Mr. White's erection, Jesse ridding the guy with his shirt gathered under his arms and Mr. White's nails scraping at his ribs. Mr. White got a call from his wife, which he fucking answered balls deep inside of him, and he apparently needing to get Holly eardrops. Yeah, he had enough time to blow his load, but not enough to even lend Jesse a limp hand. And, Jesse fell asleep that night with a stomachache and a fractured pinkie toe.

"Okay," Jesse says. "Joke is like dead, undead, and shot-in-the-brain-stem dead again, Mr. White. You can fucking let go of me now."

Mr. White's hand shifts to pat him on the top of his leg. "I know you tried your best, son."

Jesse squints. "What?"

_Oh man_, Jesse _so_ didn't notice that David was back. "Decided what you want?"

"Uh, yeah, yeah, man," Jesse says. He definitely notices Mr. White smirking. "I'll take a Grand Slam with pancakes, hash browns, and extra bacon."

"Sounds good, my man. I'll have that out in a jiffy." He winks, slipping his pen behind his ear.

The moment Jesse's staring at the back of David's swaying ponytail, Mr. White buries his hand back between Jesse's legs. His fingers find the tip and squeeze and Jesse clamps his jaw down like super tight.

"Jesse, this isn't a joke. I want you to feel good."

Jesse wants to argue that he'd feel a lot better _not _getting like potentially humiliated or fucking arrested for this, but Mr. White's tugging the elastic of Jesse's pants and boxers down in a move faster than Han can whip out his gun.

Jesse chokes out a quiet, high-pitched sound he didn't know he could make. "No, Mr. White, please, no, Mr. White…"

He fists Jesse's trembling erection. "Shh, it's okay Jesse. Let me take care of you."

Every small teenth of Jesse wants to be disgusted with Mr. White, wants to claw the guy's hand to gory, pulpy shreds until it looks like it belongs in an Eli Roth movie, wants to slam himself in his car and get the hell out of New Mexico. But, his cock is calling the shots. And all it wants is to do is grind up and forward, up and forward, up and forward.

"That's it, Jesse," Mr. White says behind the lip of his raised coffee mug. "That's a good boy."

Even with all the shit going on, Jesse has a pinpoint of enough clearness to understand that well, _shit_, he's rocking out with his cock out in a fucking Denny's with this son of bitch's hand wrapped brutally around him like a bratty toddler beating the table with his fork. And, damn it, if Jesse ain't liking it enough to dribble out the jelly of the jam hands in this whole temper tantrum scenario shit Jesse's imagining. The one and only highlight is that Jesse's robe is still covering him. Actually, he and Mr. White have so many similar baggy brown sleeves that if Mr. White keeps eating with his free hand, it's kind of like an optical allusion and you can't tell what shit belongs to who. It's like this douchebag planned it that way.

Jesse bites his lip at a particularly spastic stroke before it slows down so much he wants to cry. It's so distracting, he's not at all aware David delivered his food until the plate's there and David's gone as Mr. White says "Thank you."

He's honestly not that hungry anymore, brain shifting from food to fucking sweet, sweet release 'cause Mr. White's making plucking motions along Jesse's nuts like he's playing a scrotum-shaped guitar. Part of him thinks he should at least attempt knocking the dude's arm away again, but then that fat ginger mom is standing by their table with a giant grin.

"_Oh_, I hate to bother you two, but my son is insisting I get your autograph," she says. She wipes some sort of crust crumbs from her green cardigan, sliding over a face-down copy of her receipt. "That was some performance you put on, and he's a huge Star Wars fan. He'd love it to pieces if you signed it as Anakin."

"Yeah," Jesse says. He seriously hopes it didn't sound nearly as pornographic as it probably did. "No…no, problem."

Jesse reaches out for the ballpoint with a shaky hand.

"Oh, dear, are you feeling alright?"

Mr. White's thumb presses flush against Jesse's slit with enough pressure that Jesse groans through his teeth. He might pass out.

Mr. White offers the woman a consoling sort of smile. "My son is hypoglycemic. Sometimes it gets the best of him."

"_Sweetheart_, I'm sorry. I promise I'll get out of your hair in a jiffy and let you continue your dinner," she says.

Jesse makes a noncommittal gesture with his chin and scrawls out the best signature he can manage. He wonders when the hell "jiffy" became such a popular fucking word as he slides the stuff back to her.

"Thank you so much. This was really kind of you, darling." She pats him on the cheek right as Mr. White digs three fingers in Jesse's taint.

And, _oh shit_ older women love clapping him on the face or touching his shoulder and shit, but it's never happened during a handjob. Jesse feels all kinds of confused and messed up, doesn't want to be in this kind of three-way at all.

Thankfully her hand is gone in a motherfucking jiffy, but she's still standing there. "Before I leave, I wanted to let you know how adorable I think it is that you and your dad coordinated your costumes the way you did."

"Pardon?" Mr. White says.

"I mean, you're clearly Anakin Skywalker and Obi-Wan Kenobi," she says, bright orange and beaming like a jack-o'-lantern that won't shut up. "It's just so refreshing to see a father and son spending time together on Halloween. I can't even tell you how rare wholesome family fun seems to be nowadays."

Mr. White nods with a grin. "Tell me about it."

His fingers slide and snap themselves around Jesse's hilt and Jesse takes a long slug of water.

"Have a good night, and Happy Halloween," she says.

"Same to you." Mr. White waves.

It's then that he stops all touching and pulls away with a sticky sound Jesse knows they both heard.

Mr. White gestures to Jesse's food and wipes his hand on his napkin. "Alright, clean your plate. I want to get out of here soon. My car's still only has two functioning tires, and I forgot to call Triple-A with the restaurant's landline, so I'd greatly appreciate it if I could stay at your house tonight, if you don't mind."

Jesse glares at Mr. White. "Are you… fucking…serious? I'm like so…I mean, like….You're just gonna…."

"Going to what?" Mr. White spears a glob of his eggs. "Come on, Jesse, I don't speak whatever fractured language you're doing. What are you asking me?"

Jesse swallows a good dose of disgust along with his syrup-heavy chunk of pancake 'cause Mr. White understands him perfectly and there ain't no negotiating his way out of blue balls with this guy. Shoveling in a couple forks of hash browns, Jesse notices Mr. White's smiling again.

"At least she knew who you were," he says.

"Yeah, I'm like super psyched."

Jesse chomps down on a huge bitch of an ice cube 'cause he'd heard on the Discovery Channel that there's a one in a million chance he'll hit a nerve ending that'll kill him instantly. It doesn't do anything to him aside from make him chillier. He's still alive, next to Mr. White in a Denny's on Halloween, sporting a lame Anakin costume and a violent boner. _Shit_.


	2. Chapter 2

"Yo, Mr. White, I ain't driving with a hard-on," Jesse says.

Jesse's shivering and slouching against the bumper of his car with his arms crossed over his chest. His hands and limbs are fucking freezing, no blood flow moving in those directions. The arteries and vessels and shit all got a tractor beam pull towards the area below his beeper-covered pleather belt like his dick's the Death Star. Or like a few years back when Jesse, Combo, and Skinny Pete ate their combined weight at Golden Corral, shit-faced on a Tuesday night, staggering out cold 'cause the blood goes to your stomach to digest stuff. That was at least what Skinny said he remembered from Ms. Cavanaugh, their "honey" of a high school French teacher. Skinny used to stay after school and apparently bring her this macaroni salad his mom made and help her with computer stuff. He also said he finger-banged her against the blackboard, and Jesse had laughed listening to this liar in the back of Combo's Ford Taurus with the heat on super high and the new Gorillaz CD on even higher. Jesse finds it disturbing that he ended up being the one to really fuck a J.P. Wynne teacher, especially since that teacher ain't a brunette with C-cup jugs, black bras, and flimsy yellow tops you could see right through when she stood in front of the overhead projector.

Nah, right now, Mr. White's standing in front of him, projecting a mood Jesse's become an expert at detecting these past couple of weeks. His expression is relaxed, almost like the dude's Yoda-style mediating, eyelids drooping with half a smile on his face. Jesse doesn't need to feel the bulge brush against his crotch to know Mr. White's horny. But, it's not like it doesn't feel sort of awesome either.

Jesse even tries to lean into the guy again, but Mr. White moves him back by his waist.

He pushes Jesse's hair farther from his forehead and kisses him there. "I'm glad you left the party, Jesse."

With that delayed-as-hell comment, he tips Jesse's head back and kisses him. The speed's like zero to tongues in less than three seconds, and Jesse has to take total responsibility for his own tongue snaking inside Mr. White's mouth, eager and everything. The cut on his lip stings, but it's not too bad. He just hopes ponytail Denny's David doesn't take a smoke break and see this 'cause he might have a fucking heart attack.

Mr. White moves his mouth to Jesse's neck, being super careful _not _being super careful for things like leaving huge ass hickeys and teeth marks. About a week or so ago, he'd actually like gifted Jesse with a half-moon of angry-pink indentions high as elephant ass on the side of his throat. Like the bite was too far up there to cover with anything but makeup, which he'd used all of concealing his multiple, drug-dealer-related black eyes, or a super-fruity turtleneck, which Jesse sure as shit didn't own. He just spent the day trying to keep his chin low. But, Skinny had stopped by to borrow Jesse's copy of Call of Duty. The minute Jesse opened the door, Skinny had leaned back and laughed out a "_Damn_, son, you been fucking a chick or a baby shark?" Jesse told him to go fuck himself 'cause he didn't think Skinny could handle his answer of "neither, yo."

Mr. White gets those shark teeth snipping at the shell-part-shit of Jesse's ear. He feels his pelvis lift only an inch 'cause Mr. White's hand is bearing down on his stomach to make him stay.

"Did you know an earlier, more traditional form of trick-or-treating was when children went door-to-door performing a trick such as a handstand in exchange for the candy they do nothing to earn now?" Mr. White says.

Jesse's positive Mr. White can't be _that _strong. He attempts shoving his hips up again only to get his lower back smacked into his bumper. Lips are on his again. A nail slowly skims down the front of his pants along the pounding, straining line of his dick in a way that makes Jesse moan into the kiss and like convulse. Then a hand's in the side pocket of his robe, a door's opening, and Mr. White's sitting in the driver's seat.

Above the noise of the engine is that train again and a couple of loud, laughing, hammered-drunk voices coming from the snotty, college-douchebag club a few blocks over.

"Get in, Jesse," Mr. White says with the window down.

He feels like he's getting picked up from afterschool detention except the second he slides in, he sees Mr. White's dick poking out, stiff and party-ready, through the flap of those god awful tighty-whities. Jesse doesn't want to, but he wets his lips.

Mr. White nods to his crotch. "Trick for a treat?"

Jesse stretches his hand out to lightly hold him. He never in his life thought he'd be down to start a circle jerk in the parking lot of Denny's with a guy who looks like an overdressed flasher. "What's my treat?"

"Whatever you do to me, I'll do for you." Mr. White laces his fingers through Jesse's hair again.

"Yo, _anything_?"

Mr. White smiles. Rubbing his fingers around the head of his own cock, he reaches out and coats the slickness across Jesse's lips. "Anything."

Jesse robotically and obediently licks both his mouth and Mr. White's fingers clean. He then makes his tongue come straight back into his mouth, _young man_, and bites at the dumbass 'cause like _really _that was _so _uncalled-foror whatever. Jesse sort of studies Mr. White's offer, tries to get enough juice pumping to his brain to make a not shitty decision.

Mr. White crushes the heel of his hand into Jesse's balls and Jesse shoots up, yelping and like too horned-up to function.

Even though Mr. White and him have only been doing shit for seventeen days, Jesse knows enough that Mr. White likes working him up. He wants Jesse so _close _that he ain't arguing or struggling anymore, needs to do anything to come, touch the guy anywhere, send his tongue to galaxies far, far away from where a non-erect Jesse would ever consider sticking it.

You know, places like road head on the way home; shit like that.

As Mr. White pulls out of the parking lot and takes a right, Jesse slopes his head between Mr. White's legs. Jesse kind of briefly questions his ability to grow body hair with the dude's thick, could-be-hiding-a-tribe-of-Ewoks forest sprouting all over his thighs. He rolls his eyes at that middle school locker-room thought, and mutters, "Happy fucking Halloween."

* * *

"How on earth can you see _anything _with your front light dead? Were you planning on replacing the bulb, Jesse, or simply waiting for someone to snap their ankle out here?"

Mr. White jacked his keys once Jesse spent an apparently unsatisfactorily long time fumbling with getting it in the lock. Jesse's used to guiding the metal in with the glow from the three street lights on his block, but it ain't too easy when he's still rigid as all get out. Plus, if anybody was taking too long it was Mr. White getting off. Jesse could have sworn he stretched out that blowjob totally on purpose: spurting in Jesse's mouth with Jesse's neck sore from leaning over the console, jaw achy from being splayed open too wide, making it to the entrance of his neighborhood even though it was a fifteen fucking minute drive.

If that wasn't bad enough, Mr. White kept reaching over every, like two minutes to press the flats of his fingers against Jesse's crotch like he was checking for a pulse. Mr. White was making sure Jesse didn't go limp at all, told Jesse he wanted him in "tiptop shape" when they got to Jesse's house. And to like ensure that, he'd stroke Jesse through his pants in hella frustrating twenty or so second bursts.

Jesse had gotten so fucking pissed off, he was almost seriously thinking about snipping the guy down there with his teeth. Maybe Mr. White could tell from the tension in Jesse's jaw, 'cause his thighs tightened under Jesse's hands and he said, "No biting, Jesse. If you do, I'll snap yours off."

He tried to calm the fuck down since it'd probably be awkward having to go back to the lab if they were both not on speaking terms and dickless. Concentrating on the familiar and scarily pleasant taste of Mr. White fully up in China if China was the back of Jesse's fucking throat, he sucked until he could feel his cheeks hollow like a ghoul or some shit.

Mr. White petted the back of his neck and grunted. "You're learning, kid."

It would have been like patronizing as shit if Mr. White's voice hadn't gotten to that level, sounding hot like a breath on a cold sweat, strong like drinking espresso and snorting the grounds at the same time, hinting at shit like rough hands and a good long fuck.

Just thinking about it by his front door makes Jesse anxiously scratch at his throat. He feels something flaky there and shudders when he realizes the stuff is jizz dried on his skin. He wonders if he'll have permission to be so messy when it's his turn.

He moans 'cause the picture in his skull of Mr. White swallowing him down is enough to make him grab the back of Mr. White's coat, spread his own legs and shove his groin into Mr. White's side.

"Oh, hell yeah. Yeah, baby," Jesse says.

He grinds forward in quick beats, way past the point where he should feel bad for mounting the closest thing with a pulse outside in a community of decked-out Halloween decorations and maybe impressionable little people around the nearest plywood, fog-machine-streaming coffin. It just feels too dope.

Mr. White's bent at the waist with his nose practically touching the door; key poised in the general direction of the lock. Suddenly he can see crystal clear. He slots it inside in one-go and cranes his neck back with a bored, put-out kind of eye roll.

His gaze goes past Jesse and he clears his throat. "You do realize there is a group of children at the mouth of your driveway right now? Far be it for me to make assumptions about the next generation, but I have a hunch they're expecting candy, not to witness a _grown man_ hump another man's leg."

"_Shit_," Jesse says.

He was just a few Skittles short of spraying the rainbow. And, this is the second time tonight he thought about somebody who appeared like he's built with telepathic Jedi powers.

Straightening up with a grunt, he lets Mr. White walk inside before Jesse grabs the yellow tub he already had by the door. Before his spontaneous Denny's stop, he was planning on handing out candy once he left Badger's party. It was an excuse to ditch so he'd get back before it was too late for trick-or-treaters. Jesse's actually surprised people are still out since it's close to ten o' clock.

He turns with the bowl strategically in front of his lower-half to prevent scarring anybody under three feet 'cause Halloween shouldn't be _that _kind of disturbing. Crowding around his front stoop are three shockingly pale, sandy-haired kids and their mom in black jumpsuits with painted on skeletons. There's one girl and two boys, all appearing to be between three and nine years old. The mom has her hair in a long side braid.

"Hello!" she says. It's harsh and foreign-sounding, maybe like one of those chicks that churns butter and plays the Ricola cough drop horn up in the hills somewhere like in Greenland or Canada or some shit. "We are here for the uh, tricks of treats."

Yeah, these people definitely ain't from New Mexico.

Jesse smiles politely. "Well, you came to the right place. You guys having a fun time?"

He gets four enthusiastic nods and answers of "Yah" completely in sync like Jesse's in _The Sound of Music _and everybody knows it but him. With the way tonight's going, it wouldn't be too crazy.

The mom's smiling super hard. "You said it, friend. We are having the most fun. I and my family arrived from Netherlands only two days ago prior to now. We are Dutch. Are you acquainted with any Dutch friends?"

Jesse shuffles his feet, caught between wanting to laugh and send these nice people away so he can jerkoff in peace. Both are pretty rude, so he just messes with his hair and tries to think about Dutch people.

"I don't know nobody from the Netherlands. But, uh…my friend, Badger, is like really into those twisty doughnuts you guys make with cream cheese and blueberries."

This is for some reason hilarious. All four of them are giggling.

The girl, who looks about seven or so, pats Jesse on the arm. "No. You speak of Danishes, which is both a language and a pastry from Denmark."

"Oh, sorry," Jesse says.

There are like probably few things more embarrassing then getting corrected on geography shit from a kid while you're also hiding a boner. And, they're still laughing as he doles out enough Milky Way bars to give these kids their first American cavities.

He feels a tug on his pants leg and _my dear god_ he hopes pantsing ain't a Dutch Halloween tradition or nothing. Jerking his eyes down, he sees the three-year-old looking up with a smile.

"Can I meet your pet badger?"

The mom gently swats the boy's hand away. "_Johan_, we do _not _ask to see the badger of our neighbor at a time of night as this. We will return during the sunshine of day."

Jesse wants to redirect wherever the hell this conversation is going, but the lady's throwing her arms around his neck. The hard plastic rim of the candy bowl between them rams into his crotch in a way that's both painful and like disturbingly kickass.

He sucks in a breath. "Happy Halloween."

"Happiness of the Halloween to your health as well," she says. "Goedenacht!"

The lady lets Jesse go, prancing away with a grin and three freakishly well-behaved kids following behind like albino baby ducks.

Jesse places the rest of the candy on his stoop and shuts the door behind him just as Mr. White grabs him by the arms. He's hauled to his futon and pulled on top of Mr. White's lap with one of his legs slotted between Mr. White's, like balancing on one of Mr. White's thighs like a little kid.

Jesse presses against the bare muscle there, but Mr. White cups both hands to the sides of Jesse's hips and raises him so Jesse's crotch is like suspended in the air. He starts to wobble, teetering to the left enough that Mr. White needs to hold on tighter.

"Yo, Mr. White, I ain't as small as you think I am. What the hell are we even doing? You gonna bounce me on your knee and tell me a bedtime story? 'Cause I know one about a dude who's been pitching a tent long enough for the circus to move in, have the elephants escape and then start ruling the planet."

Mr. White chuckles and brushes his thumbs over the elastic waistband shit that's keeping Jesse's pants up. "Elephants _ruling_ the planet, huh? Tell me, what would that entail?"

"I don't know. Like they'd probably kill all the ivory poachers and force people to grow them a shit ton of peanuts and they'd be like racist to mice since they're scared of them. Restaurant and bars would have signs posted like "no varmints" allowed." Jesse snickers 'cause he just said the word "varmints" with a straight face.

Mr. White lifts an eyebrow, but's it not like condescending or anything, just curious. "I'm getting a hunch that most of this material you have about elephants is from children's programs."

Jesse watches the Discovery Channel like all the time, totally knows that the typically fifteen thousand pound mammals prefer palm fronds. But, there's something sort of hidden under Mr. White's glasses-wearing, button-down, like exterior that gets off being the grown up of the two of them. And, Jesse is ready to fucking come desperately enough to play up the guy's kinks. Post-orgasm Jesse might be hella pissed about it, but Pre-orgasm Jesse's pretty stubborn about getting what he wants.

Holding on to Mr. White's shoulders, he wiggles around in search of any kind of contact.

Mr. White grips his hips harder, and Jesse feels a heat flare up from noticing how Mr. White's hands cover the bones like all the way.

"Jesse," Mr. White says. "Jesse, I need you to listen. Can you do that for me?"

He nods.

"I know I've held you off for some time now. But, I need you to do one more thing for me." Mr. White slips his palms up Jesse's vest and shirt, the prop belt sliding off in the process. "You wanted to hump my leg outside?"

Jesse slides down too. His dick meets Mr. White's leg and Jesse gasps out in relief.

"I want to watch you do it properly."

Jesse has to drop his forehead to Mr. White's shoulder and groan with his lips shut 'cause a long, wet strand of excitement gurgles from his cock. Yep, Pre-orgasm Jesse is a sick motherfucker.

Sighing, Jesse scrambles to get his pants off when Mr. White slowly places Jesse's hands back on his shoulders.

"No, not yet, Jesse." He grabs Jesse's thighs. "Here, let me show you."

Mr. White gently pulls Jesse forward, pushes him back, and tugs him close again. Jesse catches on pretty quick, starts to gyrate on his own as Mr. White moves his hands enough to just frame his sides, like hovering or whatever. It's like totally alarming how bomb it feels when Mr. White's knee stretches his balls back with each drag of Jesse's hips.

"_Jesse_, look at you," Mr. White says. The guy's fucking beaming up at him, arms still raised like he's waiting for a hug. "That's my boy. Jesse, that's my good boy."

Mr. White sounds like he's proudly watching Jesse take his first steps or something. Jesse's not sure what he's doing that's so fantastic, but those words are probably the most pleasure he's gonna get from Mr. White's mouth tonight. The dude should feel lucky that Jesse's digging all of this, like a lot.

Jesse likes it enough that when he tilts in at a new angle and Mr. White whispers "good boy" again, he pops his mouth wide open.

"_Oh, fuck, Mr. White_," he moans. "This shit's awesome. Let's like put a pin in this. We could save it for days when like your ancient ass can't get it up."

"Little _brat_," Mr. White says. He shoves his hand up Jesse's shirt and pinches his nipple like harsh as hell.

Jesse arches into it. He's a sucker for getting his nipples tweaked hard enough to bruise. "_Fuck yeah_. Do the other one."

Mr. White listens to him for like once, cinching down and winding both nubs like Jesse's some sort of science equipment that needs to get tuned up for a big experiment.

Every like ounce of tension and pressure is building low in his belly, overheating and pulsing like his whole body's a meteor, ready to streak across the inky blankness and burn and burn and burn. As if on autopilot instinct, he snaps his teeth into his bottom lip and shakes. He swings back wider to give him more space to thrust into infinity and beyond.

Mr. White smacks both palms against Jesse's abdomen, holding him up again. Jesse cries out something so shrill it hurts his own fucking ears, heaving, spit coming down his chin.

"No, Jesse," he says. "Not yet."

Mr. White smiles, kisses against the podracer-speeding rage of the pulse on Jesse's throat. And, just for a second, Jesse thinks it's appropriate that he's Anakin and Mr. White still looks like a half-dressed Obi-Wan Kenobi. When Mr. White does shit like this or calls him a junkie or verbally shits on Jesse's fucking everything, he wants more than anything to be the one to kill this sick son of a bitch. 'Cause no matter how much Jesse seethes and growls and pushes against what's left of the blue shards of his life, Mr. White's still gonna be there with a hand wrapped around Jesse's balls.

Feeling himself shudder, Jesse starts a little when he realizes his eyes are watering, choking back on the soggy inhale that he _needs _to take in order to breathe.

Mr. White pulls away from his neck, softly claps the side of Jesse's face and presses his lips to the bruise on his cheekbone. "Shh, Jesse. It's okay. You're fine."

He traces the pads of two fingers in a sluggish circle against the clothed tip of Jesse's dick. It's not enough to get off and Mr. White knows it, just keeps it up, keeps playing with him, keeps circling, and circling, and circling until Jesse's eyes blur.


	3. Chapter 3

Somewhere in the haze of hands on his crotch, lips on his bruises, and a scratchy goatee on his collarbone, Jesse finds himself in his haunted upstairs bathroom. He's not at all positive of the specifics or whatever of how he ends up here: propped up on the counter, half of his ass in his sink, waiting while Mr. White tells him to be a good boy and raise his arms so he can pull Jesse's vest and robe over his head. Once they're off, Jesse shivers with his spine against the cooled surface of the mirror. Mr. White's close enough for Jesse to buck up into the knot of the belt tying his coat together, whimpering 'cause Jesse's never been this achingly hard for so long. It hurts.

Mr. White's back to keeping Jesse in place and Jesse hiccups a seriously humiliating baby animal sound.

"Oh, you _poor_ boy," Mr. White says. He wedges his fingers in the band of Jesse's pants. "Let's see what has you so fussy."

Mr. White wrenches down the two layers, and the friction pulling over Jesse's inflamed skin is violent to the point that Jesse's nauseous. The bathroom is frigidly fucking cold, the air and shit feeling like something physical slinking along his body in goose bumps and head-to-toe chills. His balls are throbbing like the raw nerve of an abscessed tooth ripped from the gums and festering.

"Not so bad," Mr. White says, rubbing his thumbs teasingly into Jesse's scrotum. "This is just a minor case of epididymal hypertension."

Jesse's been too freaked to take a look at his own junk, but it's hard not to when Mr. White starts using like Web M.D. shit on him. Maybe Jesse shouldn't have 'cause his sack is grotesque and mutilated-looking, exaggeratedly swollen and three shades bluer than he's ever seen it before. Right now, his man parts could be cast as a stunt double for Emperor Palpatine's face.

Mr. White skims the heel of his hand slickly across the underside of Jesse's shaft and Jesse stutters fucking nonsense. _Shit_, he's _covered_ in pre-cum.

"You're completely filthy, Jesse. We should do something about that."

Hunching his shoulders to lean forward, Mr. White carefully cranes Jesse's cock back to smudge against Jesse's belly, just getting him messier. When Mr. White pulls away, it stays there on its own, pressed into Jesse's abdomen like a kid tugging on his dad's sleeve, peering up, begging to go home already. Jesse _is_ home, almost doesn't want to be here.

It's the _almost _that allows Jesse to sit and watch while Mr. White yanks the hand towel from the chrome-plated ring on the wall and run it under the faucet with the water so hot Jesse can feel it warm his outer thigh in a clammy, leg-hairs-sticking-up kind of way. He depresses Jesse's bar of Dial into the cloth, foaming it up until he seems satisfied.

Mr. White flashes a lazy grin. "This should feel good, Jesse. Perhaps you've even masturbated with this method. But, my intentions are not for you to finish this way. Just let me know if the stimulation becomes too much for you, alright?"

Jesse nods.

Mr. White nods too before he reaches forward. The almost scalding, soaked cloth curls pleasurably around him, soap greasing each long pull of Mr. White's fist with a sudsy _squish. _Jesse's never done this before and he has no idea why the hell not. Maybe he's in the horny version of hungry when everything tastes amazing, but _shit _Mr. White's stroking him _just _right.

Jesse can feel the little stubbles of material from the fabric being so old and it's like chafing even with it all lathered up. He sighs when he registers that familiar stir starting up and he's almost there and there ain't no way he's telling Mr. White.

Cruel, freezing air surrounds him.

His gut heaves like a soggy lump within Jesse's body when he feels Mr. White drizzle warm water over him and blot him dry with his sleeve. He's too shocked to speak, just sniffles and shudders as Mr. White caresses his length between his fingers.

"In case you were curious, epididymal hypertension is when the epididymis, or the ducts in which sperm resides, is clogged, much like residue in the plumping of your sink," Mr. White says.

Jesse considers bringing up Emilio's acid-reeking "residue" probably still clinging to the insides of the pipes below Jesse's toilet. But, Mr. White tents his hand over the head of Jesse's cock, twisting him like he's juicing a lime.

"_Oh shit, Mr. White, shit, shit,_" Jesse barks out, blinking spastically. "It fucking _hurts_."

Mr. White doesn't let up at all. "Jesse, what you're feeling is quite common. The arteries that transmit blood to your genitals are engorged."

Mr. White stabs his thumb along that nerve that runs down Jesse's shaft. Jesse swears he can feel it branch all the way up to his sinuses, making his nostrils pulse like he's about to get a nosebleed.

"Simultaneously, the veins that run in the opposing direction are constricting, trapping blood inside your testicles."

At "testicles," Mr. White seizes Jesse so tight he can see the purpled map of veins on Mr. White's hand jut out. Jesse whines, body straining to get somewhere that ain't here.

"_Gah, _why the fuck did I let you in my house? I could be getting head from Leonardo instead of this shit."

"Leonardo?" Mr. White says. He squints dramatically behind his glasses. "That sounds like a man's name."

Mr. White's fingertips find that sensitive place behind Jesse's balls again like the idea of Jesse getting blown by some French dude named Leonardo is a huge turn-on. His ring finger presses against Jesse's opening and it's like his button to start talking like a fucking idiot. "Leonardo's a turtle."

His eyebrows pop up. "You had a prior engagement that included receiving fellatio from a turtle?"

Mr. White gets two fingers in Jesse up to the knuckles, squirming like thick Sarlacc tentacles ready to slowly digest Jesse for over a thousand fucking years. Moving at all only slots them in deeper, draining Jesse's lungs of a lifetime's amount of oxygen.

"Turtle," Jesse grits out. "Turtle…Ninja Turtle."

Mr. White hums, still twisting the digits inside of Jesse. "It's fascinating what the brain resorts to in times of depravation…or trauma, though trauma would be a melodramatic term in your case."

Mr. White yanks his fingers out fast enough that it's just as startling as getting stuffed.

Jesse's bites at the air in front of him. "_Shit_, Mr. White. I'm in _pain_."

"Jesse, there's no need for dramatics. Other than some minor discomfort, the only other symptom of epididymal hypertension is the creation of this delicately lovely shade of blue."

He tweaks Jesse firmly with his thumb and Jesse thrashes beneath him until the faucet cuts sharply into his lower back. Jesse knots his face up, spits something that might be "Asshole."

"Now, son, don't work yourself up. Just relax," Mr. White says.

He lowers on to his knees and Jesse moans at the sheer like promise of relieving the sensation of his dick being peeled apart inch by inch. When he's eyelevel with Jesse's crotch, Mr. White smiles, parting Jesse's thighs wider. Jesse feels a fresh drip down the side, the liquid burning over each ridge and vein. Mr. White smears a knuckle into the stickiness. He sucks on the joint eagerly. His gaze is on Jesse.

"_Please, Mr. White_," Jesse says.

Mr. White shoves Jesse's knees even farther apart. "You need to be warmed up first."

He tips his head, licking along the inside crease of Jesse's thigh. Jesse clamps a fist to his mouth, cries low in his throat 'cause he's been getting warmed up all night, dick searing from the outside like the bowl of a meth pipe. Mr. White switches sides with his tongue slowly slithering. The suckle and slide sounds sickly pornographic, echoing and amplified within the walls of his bathroom like massive speakers cranked up to 120 decibels or some shit.

Backing away with one last long lap, he brings his lips to the head and opens up, and _fuck _Jesse wants this _so _bad. He can feel Mr. White's breath pluming warm at his slit. It moves up his shaft all the way up to the hilt before retracing its path. He does the same thing again, exhaling as deeply as Darth fucking Vader, orbiting around his cock with no actual contact with the lips he's like occasionally licking. Even with the heavy, sagging, painful weight of his dick cutting off major activity to Jesse's brain, he can still remember the night his power went out during an ice storm in like January. He'd been so fucked up on crystal, he tried to heat a peperoni Hot Pocket by defrosting it with his mouth. If Mr. White keeps this shit up, the skin stretched across Jesse might start to expand and blister and crack.

Instead, he presses a tender, tiny peck against the base of Jesse's puffy erection. He leads the kisses to return to Jesse's inner thigh, opening his jaw wide like Jesse's about to get a hickey.

Mr. White bites down viciously.

Jesse, stunned, opens his mouth around a quivering groan. He thrusts up. And, above the sharp stab of teeth is Mr. White's goatee scraping against the ring of nerves around Jesse's dick. It's this totally scratchy, itchy, mesmerizing shit like steel wool. The hairs brush back and forth against him, back and forth, back and forth.

Jesse pitches his pelvis out, coming in thick, oily-feeling surges. He's sputtering in long, pouring gushes like someone severed his hand and he's bleeding out in the most mind-numbingly awesome way possible. Jesse feels _so _damn, fucking good he doesn't even give a shit that he's creaming Mr. White's face.

It's not until he's softening that Mr. White unhinges from Jesse's leg. Circulation stretches out to the spot. Nerves twitch with the sensation shit of waking up.

Jesse screams.

His fingers find the front of Mr. White's robe and Jesse shouts out, thin line of blood leaking on the counter, red on Mr. White's mouth.

He yells until his throat jams back up with that fucking hysterical, emotional bullshit that wants to pool from Jesse's eyes. But, he ain't crying again. _No_, he trembles with his tongue flush against the roof of his mouth and breathes through his nose. He closes his eyes.

His medicine cabinet squeaks open. A minute or so later, he feels another sting on his thigh, shoots his eyes open to see Mr. White's dabbing him with a cotton ball soaked in alcohol.

Jesse juts his chin out. "Jackass."

Screwing the cap back on, Mr. White opens up a tube of Neosporin and slathers the orange gunk on like a ton.

Jesse glares at the prick. "Jackass!"

Mr. White wipes his face clean, seeming more focused than mad. He unwraps a bandage, gets it smooth over the small pinpricks of blood, and pats the top once it's stuck on.

"Jackass," Jesse says. The word shatters in his mouth this time 'cause Jesse's fucking blubbering, tears coming up too strong for Jesse's will or Jedi mind powers.

"It won't hurt nearly as much if you don't think about it," Mr. White says. He's petting Jesse's ribs, whispering soft coaxing sounds that _shouldn't _be making Jesse feel better.

Jesse feels like he's still wearing his leather vest only it's warped along his intestines, fitted inside him with his organs, clinching around his heart. He sucks in a mouthful of spit, tries to block out the looming bald figure of Mr. White. More than anything, he wants to believe if he ain't thinking about it, this shit, the shit between them won't hurt as much.

But, he can't stop himself from thinking about Mr. White obsessively, tonguing that abscessed, puss-filled, rotted-hollow tooth. Jesse can't slap some ointment shit on and cover it up. He can't even make himself stop crying.

* * *

Jesse feels like he's coming down from the FLU, naked under the covers, skin like flushed and warm. He was so too exhausted to lift himself from the sink once his sobs died out. Mr. White had to carry him to bed, gingerly dropped him in a sagging heap beneath the blanket, and got him a glass of milk. He had actually taken the time to stir in some chocolate syrup.

Cupping the back of Jesse's trembling, tattooed hand, Mr. White helped Jesse drink it, going off about carbohydrates and proteins and calcium, stopping every once and a while to ask if Jesse was alright. It got sort of annoying. But, Jesse didn't tell Mr. White to shut the hell up even once during his lesson plan on cow-tit juice. Maybe he wigged the guy out a little. Jesse was too tired to do more than lie still and swallow down the sweetness that's apparently hella loaded with electrolytes.

When Jesse drained the glass, Mr. White disappeared to clean the blood off the counter with a spray bottle that's smells bleach-like even over the ashy sting of the three cigarettes he chained smoked flat on his back and stubbed out right on the nightstand. His bathroom light's still on and so is the T.V., playing the original _Texas Chainsaw Massacre _at a low volume, just muffled screams of chicks in hot pants and shit getting sliced up. Jesse has a handful of mini Reese's cup wrappers scattered by his side, the undressed candies in an execution line across the blanket on his chest, just waiting patiently for death. He clamps the roof of his mouth down against the lucky one as it oozes its peanut butter guts past his tongue.

"Yo," Jesse says. It's the first word he's gotten out aside from "jackass" in the past half hour or so, and Mr. White flashes to the doorway in just a white shirt and underwear, looking concerned and alarmed.

Jesse shifts to his side, stares blankly at the carnage on screen. "I'd totally go psycho and like turn cannibal if people were full of peanut butter."

"_What_ are you watching?"

Jesse hears the suction-y sounds of Mr. White's bare feet on the hardwood.

"Oh, _Texas Chainsaw. _I remember seeing this at a drive-in when it was first released, if you can believe it."

Jesse pops another Reese's in his mouth. "How can you hear the movie at places like that when you're in a car?"

"The theatre has a short-range radio station."

Mr. White doesn't call him an idiot or anything, and Jesse thinks maybe he should let Mr. White puncture, like flesh wounds into him more often.

"Who'd you go with?"

He doesn't answer through an entire chase sequence. Clearing his throat, he shifts his weight onto the other leg. "I saw it on one of my first dates. Her name was Holly Peppler."

"Was she wearing dope shorts like that?"

Mr. White turns his head to Jesse, forehead furrowed. "Huh?"

"You know, like those," Jesse says. He nods to the girl in the tiny, high-waisted denim shit whose like covered in red corn syrup.

"No." He frowns like he's thinking. "It was too cold. She was very conservative, wore bellbottoms and jumpers to school. We were in the same third period French class. I can't even recall seeing her in anything sleeveless."

"Damn, Mr. White, were you like in love with this chick?"

Mr. White makes a noise that means nothing at all. "This film gave me nightmares for weeks. Do you mind if I change it?"

"Whatever," Jesse says, side-eying him from his pillow.

Jesse wonders if Mr. White will think about _him_ when he like inevitably goes back to the drugs, overdoses like so many people he knows. A part of him hopes he'll be remembered as fondly as some high school bitch in a 1970's jumpsuit who Jesse's suddenly, stupidly, depressingly jealous of.

He feels the mattress sway and a hand on his shoulder.

"Jesse, are you still upset with me?"

Mr. White's soon snug up against him, arm around Jesse's waist, nails gently scratching Jesse's scalp in a way that makes Jesse feel like he's slathered in chocolate and dissolving inside a giant's mouth. The guy lost his shirt sometime in the last like thirty seconds before getting into bed, and that bulky heat, shallow heart beat shit, and like even his chest hair feels bomb along Jesse's spine. Jesse sort of groans when Mr. White sucks at the back of his neck.

He drags a sloppy, steady, like Jabba the Hut-paced path of open-mouthed kisses over his clown tattoo and across his throat as he traces a tingly touch into his nipples. Jesse flips over to give him more room and Mr. White just fucking stops, blinking, looking as if Jesse's a freak or something. It's like nobody pissed off with the bastard has _ever_ rolled over for him in bed before.

Mr. White palms Jesse's rib like he's checking if Jesse's real life and takes one of his Hannibal Lecter-level creepy-as-hell whiffs of Jesse's hair. It's like Jesse's a really awesome candle Mr. White likes to smell.

"Yo, I feel like a Bath and Body Works."

Mr. White chuckles, looks down at Jesse with those lines around his eyes crinkling. Jesse feels like as sappy as fucking liquid wax, but he thumbs the creases on the left side. It's comforting in a super lame way or whatever.

Mr. White shuts his eyes for a second like he likes Jesse touching his face that way. "What would you call the name of your scent, or fragrance rather?"

Jesse shrugs into the mattress. "I don't know. You're the one doing all the sniffing. You pick."

He buries his nose back into Jesse's hair, inhaling a ton. "I think the most appropriate name would be 'Pacified Hooligan.' It would include top notes of cigarettes and peanut butter with a base of pancake syrup. There's also a bit of a lingering of cinnamon and skin, and as you so delicately put it, jizz."

"Yo, alert to all serial killers: Bath and Body Works is about to come out with your newest candle to jackoff to."

Mr. White chuckles again, and Jesse uses the dude's face being so close as an excuse to work his lips over his jaw.

"_Jesse,"_ Mr. White gasps.

It's sort of rare for Jesse to like initiate kissing like this even though Mr. White said he was pretty good at it. Mr. White seems to like kissing him like a lot, like it's part of their daily routine. Some guys shoot pool or split a basket of wings while they watch a game or get a couple of beers after work. They usually wind up in one of their cars, away from the security camera, kissing like a couple of teenagers, except for the whole like just-got-done-cooking-meth thing. Mr. White calls it "necking," which in old-man means making out. Jesse totally makes fun of him for still trying to use slang from the 1970s and shit. But, he's started to like think the word when he pulls back to see Mr. White's lips swollen, expression all dazed.

Jesse tips Mr. White's head back a little to start some of that necking shit. He can hear the murmur of a McDonald's commercial, a car thrum by with the bass turned up, a neighbor slamming a door and yelling at somebody named Billy. It might actually be a Burger King ad. Jesse's pretty concentrated on the hum of surprise he gets out of Mr. White, the like good kind of tickle of his goatee, the slide of tongue against his.

"I love seeing you like this," Mr. White says against Jesse's forehead. "You're so soft and sleepy. It's almost as if I should make you come on a much more frequent basis. Do you think you'd be moderately more agreeable?"

Jesse sighs out a laugh, tries to push down the gradually shrinking, withering part of him that wants to smash his fist into Mr. White's chest cavity and gag the asshole with his own damn, slimy, pulsating heart.

'Cause there's the other part of him that has Jesse stretching his head back, offering up his neck, handing himself over to Mr. White like he's in a self-made carbonite prison, not even needing Boba Fett to sell him out. It doesn't hurt that even though most of the night blew hardcore, over the torture and teeth marks and tears, Jesse had an orgasm so killer he had to be nursed back to health via chocolate fucking milk. Mr. White's the only person that knows every part of Jesse's life on the dark side, standing up for him when it counts. Yeah, he's a greedy dick. But, for some reason Jesse's like drawn to Mr. White like an intergalactic bug to a lightsaber, 'cause it looks all enticing and maybe like it's gonna protect you and shit. But, you're just gonna fucking fry the shit out of yourself if you get too close. In one word, Jesse's fucked.

"Totally," Jesse says, rolling his eyes, maybe smiling.

Mr. White passes a knuckle over the cut on Jesse's upper lip. "My sweet, sleepy, good boy."

He kisses Jesse's Adam's apple just like Jesse wanted him to, mouths his way to Jesse's shoulder where he positions Jesse so his back's against Mr. White's chest.

Jesse looks at the T.V. and _Casper _is on a movie channel he doesn't recognize, probably 'cause everyone's voice is dubbed over in Mexican. The blue digital numbers on his DVD player read out 11:45. And, Jesse realizes he somehow landed on that planet where he was able to kind of get everything he wanted out of Halloween.

Jesse sticks the last Reese's cup in his mouth that tumbled to the side of his pillow. He pretends like the other junk isn't important and huddles back into the bristly, calming balminess behind him.

For the first time in a long while, Jesse feels totally calm. Jesse knows his place, grasped in Mr. White's bruising, shielding, caressing hand. He even lifts Mr. White's arm and has a stare down with those frustrating-as-fuck fingers of his. And, kind of loving every line and wrinkle, Jesse kisses the center of his palm.


End file.
